(In my epic poem The McAdooiad, a political consultant leads an expedition to Hades to conduct a focus group there. While there, they are given a tour by the shade of someone who might be Mark Twain, or maybe Kurt Vonnegut. They travel to the section of Hell called the Vale of Conservative Commentators.)
“Hell has expanded, you know, since Dante’s day,” the guide explained.
“There are more than just nine rings now; indeed, there are more than nine sets of rings, and new construction continues apace.
But it cannot keep up with the influx of souls,
Hence your delays upon entry.
It’s more like a giant anti-amusement complex, a vast park of punishment, a mall of maulings, subdivisions of sufferings,
For those who could not, would not, dared not repent.
But for all the mass production, for all the identical rows of high-rises,
Still there are some who have rated their very own personal dooms, who have crafted their eternal homes, which even now await their architects
Somewhere in this Hell … here, see this vast, empty plain?
In the midst of this plain there is a table.
Behind the table is a comfortable leather chair.
On the table is a huge golden microphone, and an ashtray with a cigar.
There is a man who will be condemned
To sit behind that microphone forever, and smoke that cigar,
And talk and talk and talk and talk….
Trying to convince someone, anyone, that he does not belong there.
The microphone, however, will not be connected to anything.
Only he will hear himself, and he will hear only himself
But he will not even convince himself.
Because no one could ever make him change his mind.”